Blood On Your Lips
by StoneScorpion
Summary: being beta'd! Erol loves Jak in a twisted kind of way, after all, how can you love the man you’re out to kill? How can the commander stand doing Praxis's dirty work? Is he really the crazy man everyone thinks he is? I'd say yes, yes he is. ErolxJak, Jak2
1. Prologue

**Story title:** Blood On Your Lips

**Setting:** Jak II – from the start until we loose track of Erol

**Warnings:** Violence, swearing, sexual themes and **implied** rape, along with a good ol' dose of **Yaoi**.

No likes the **yaoi**? Then no reading the story, because the thing is saturated in it. I'll be damned if I write Erol and he isn't completely and utterly **gay**!

Yeah, I've been rewriting the story because the first chapters drive me crazy. So there are new scenes, although the plot line is the same – I just changed the way it happens.

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The baron was an imposing man – barrel chested and strong, large and undeniably commanding…

But not one eye was tuned upon him as he leant forwards expectantly upon his throne, his single eye narrowed in disgust. No, no one was looking at him now – not one of the fifty or so guards crowded into the throne room, standing in stiff ranks of red.

Instead every head was turned to stare at the whippish young man who was sitting comfortably in a hard-backed chair, boots resting on the table before him, racing mask resting on his lap.

And right now he seemed far more interested in getting every last speck of blood off that mask than paying any heed to the dozens of people practically _dicing _him up with their eyes…

"Do you find something I said amusing, commander?" spat Praxis, his words shocking the room out of that heavy silence so that every head swung simultaneously to take in his angry face and powerful figure.

Erol's lips twitched, as if a smile had begun to sneak across them but had been bitten back sharply – his head slowly rising to take in the Baron, by all the world a disgruntled cat that had been denied his own personal pleasures. There was a loud clang as he reached forwards with infuriating calmness and deposited the mask upon the table, bulging lens swinging to fix on the Baron as it shifted upon the smooth metal.

"Let me get this straight, dear Baron." The words were a purr, sweet and sickly as his mouth twisted into a leer and his booted feet shifted upon the table, seeking a more comfortable position. "You have heard a new prisoner shall be coming by some, ah, _unconventional_ means, but you do not know why, how, or where said prisoner will be appearing." Here he paused, twisting his fingers together idly. "Nor do you know _when_, which causes our current little predicament."

A harsh squeaking of his boots on the metal, fighting back the smirk that wanted so badly to slink across his lips.

"Now, as I'm sure you know, we neither have the strength nor the, shall we say, _time_, to have squadrons on constant patrol for this _wonder boy_." A gloved finger shifted through his flaming hair, the commander hiding his smile behind his arm as his control wavered ever so slightly.

The Baron snarled, the muscles of his jaw working furiously.

"So, I was merely interested in what you are going to do to solve this little, _problem_, of ours."

He smirked – he couldn't help it, it was up there on his lips before he could snatch it back. Oh, he knew he would pay for it – but right now the feeling was far too good to waste. "Of course _I_ have a little solution, if you'd be willing to hear it, oh almighty ruler of Haven City." Those ambers eyes blinked lazily, never straying from the baron.

Praxis shifted in his seat, fighting the urge to go over to Erol and wipe the smug look off his face with the barrel of his gun – but instead he merely inched forwards and fixed the commanders with his best 'I'll have you flogged for this, you insubordinate cur' glare.

"I though _you_ might," he grated out from between his clenched teeth, his temper flaring. It was bad enough the man was a noncompliant bastard, but to show him up in front of the guards! It was unthinkable!

"Tell us then. What does our _darling_ little commander have to offer to our _situation_?"

Erol twisted the cloth in his hands, eyeing up his mask - as if he had heard nothing the Baron had said and was only thinking of polishing his prized possession a little more.

But then his head jerked upwards sharply, a shark-tooth grin on his face. "Why, my dear dear Baron, I am so pleased you value my _humble_ opinion."

_If there were a prize for the 'best manipulating bastard' in the city, it would sure as hell go to him_, thought the Baron darkly. _Along with the 'evil as hell' award and the 'I kill for fun' medal._

"It is quite simple really – you got the information filtered through to you, and as such it is broken and unhelpful. So why don't we just go to the _source_…"

Praxis blinked his single eye.

"And you _know_ the source of my information do you?" he hissed, fists clenching so that all colour bled out from his knuckles.

Erol simply chuckled, amused by the display as he shifted in his seat. "Of course I do." Another smile, baring a glimpse of gleaming teeth. "The old soothsayer down at the Bazaar. I would like to have a little talk with her."

The commander clicked his tongue against his teeth, frowning slightly. "With your leave."

Praxis was on the verge of barking 'no' at the top of his lungs when that dangerously sleek tone stayed his temper, and he found himself surveying the situation with cool detachment. Despite the man's obvious authority complex the commander did have a point, although it irked the Baron to hear it delivered in such sick-sweet tones.

"Go now then," he finally growled.

Erol smiled.

"But take a squadron with you, and don't you _dare _try anything tricky, _commander_." The title was a hiss, soft and deadly, "because if you do I will kick you out onto the streets of this city on your arse."

It was a hollow threat and everyone in the room knew it, despite the gruff bellow it was delivered in – although in that moment Praxis was inclined to think otherwise.

Erol nodded stiffly, scooping the racing mask from the table as his lanky body surged to its feet, his voice soft and far too sweet as it slid from between his lips. "As you wish."

The mask was secured upon his face, the straps pulled tight in quick, practiced motions of his gloved fingers. Erol moved towards the door, motioning silently for the nearest squad to follow him into the dark hallway beyond.

But, as always, he couldn't resist getting in the last word – pausing, his back still turned to the crowd, waiting for the squadron to filter past him before he spoke.

"I think we have fixed our little problem, haven't we Baron? I do hope you'll be waiting for me when I get back."

The Baron could tell he was smiling, and by all the gods it sent his temper raging!

But his bellowing cry of 'of course I'll be waiting, you insubordinate cur' fell upon deaf ears as the commander slipped between the blast doors and the resounding clang of the metal connecting rang through the throne room like thunder.

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Out in the hallway Erol felt a familiar surge of glee – not because he had come out on top in their latest battle of wits, but because he was out of the throne room and the free of the oppressive glare of the 'big bad Baron'.

He was a lion amongst the sheep now, and the guards wouldn't breath a word to the Baron no matter what he did.

Because they knew the penalty for crossing that unspoken line, and they sure as hell didn't want to go there.

Erol strode down the hallway, the red men following at his heels like obedient little puppies – although each one knew they didn't follow some loving master but instead strode along in the shadow of a man who didn't give two creds about their state of health.

Or one, for that matter.

The pace through the palace was unrelenting, Erol driving them hard to get to the streets below as quickly as possible, seemingly oblivious to the fact that each guard was encased in something a _tad_ heavier than his own armor. Not that they complained – it was better to have him hounding you than letting you go slow, because you knew that if he did that he was _definitely_ planning something you _weren't_ going to like.

The hallway loomed ahead, the elevators whirring in the sickly light.

Erol was on it before you could take two breaths, urging them up with sharp and unremitting snarls – fractured here and there by the odd slap of his gun holster connecting with his thigh and a stream of swear words that seemed to slip so elegantly off his tongue.

It was as if any word, _every_ word came out so much sweeter when it came from between his lips.

"Come on, you dogs. We don't know how much time we have and I'll be damned if I have to waste any more getting you to move, so speed up or I put a bullet _right_ through your skull."

It was threat they were all willing to believe.

As the last guard stepped upon the elevator Erol's hand came to slap harshly on one of the many buttons littering the walls and there was sickening lurch as it dropped with speed towards the earth – the walls a blur of colour, every guard standing stiff and silent as Erol prowled among them.

They were like ranks of robotic monsters, not men but mechanical beasts crafted by hands to used to the taste of death and destruction. And he, slipping through them, cutting through the walls of red armor – he was the only thing that looked remotely alive, like he had flesh and blood and could _feel_ something other than the emotions programmed into him by some mad scientist intent upon world domination.

But, if anything, Erol was the least human of the lot…

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"The dark one comes today with the sinking sun, and he comes into a world of red."

The harsh and grainy voice of that blasted monkaw split the silence like a knife, causing Erol to smile and chuckle as he slipped his gun back into his holster and spun on his heels.

Behind him the blind old soothsayer did not move an inch, sitting silent and utterly still with her hands folded in her lap. It was not that she _wanted_ the wonder boy to be captured, simply that she knew what had to be done – and sadly the years to come were crucial in order to craft the hero.

But even so it cut her deeply to relay such information into the hands of this monster.

The commander who would become tormentor in the dark years she knew were coming – whose hands had felt a million choking breaths and had caused death and destruction countless times, and many times more. A man so stepped in blood his very presence brought bile to her throat.

So vile, so despicable…

So _necessary_.

Even Erol was shocked by the ease of which he had convinced her to give in, his suspicion aroused by those words – set on squeezing out of her the reasons why she had folded so quickly to his whim.

Onin knew he wanted to hurt her – to make her talk (through the bird – but it was her words all the same.) But he wouldn't, because her speech was ringing in his ears. He didn't have time, and he knew it.

But he hesitated, lingering at the flap of her tent – hand hovering over the grip of his pistol.

Until at last, with a savage growl, he stalked back into the sunlight and left her with what little peace she could find with such a heavy heart beating in her chest.

The blaring sunlight caused Erol to slit his eyes, shifting the mask that was perched upon his head so that it blocked out most of the harsh light. The bulging lenses caught it, filtering a sickly path of red into his eyes – so that for a moment he saw only blood and believed he could taste it on his tongue.

And then he stepped forwards and the eave of one of the buildings sliced through the light and cast his body in shadow. The commander blinked, shaking his head slightly as he motioned for the squad to follow him once more.

"And he comes into a world of red," Erol mused – parting the throng of civilians simply by _being_, by walking among them with the red men following quick behind. His amber eyes glared into the distance, trying to make sense of the words.

Then it hit him – hard.

Not unpleasantly so, for it caused a smile to glide across his face, as if he was attempting to gouge at the inky stains upon his face. "Industrial section," he snapped – his words immediately echoed by a gritty, radio voice and passed into the headsets of the guards not close enough to catch his soft tones.

As he walked Erol slid his pistols from their holsters, checking each in turn before, satisfied, he slipped them back and allowed his pace to quicken. A patrol moved past him, moving purposefully towards the palace – guns cocked and pointed forwards, sickeningly robotic voices harsh as they filtered through the radio.

Erol ignored them – and their mechanical growls of 'commander'. He had a task set, and the Baron wasn't there to breath down his back and snap at him in childish fits of rage. Ahh, yes, life was good.

And it was about to get a hell of a lot better…

There was flash of light, as if the sky had torn open and spat some flaming ball into the world – and by all appearance it did exactly that. The commander quickened his pace further, the discordant jumble of boots echoing off the shiny metal walls of the buildings as three of the guards surged up the ramp after him, the rest skirting around to secure the location.

Tck tck. Tck tck. Tck tck.

The intruder was blonde, and small – with blue clothes and bare feet. AND what appeared to be an orange rat lying on the ground beside him.

It would be fair to say that Erol was pleased with his find.

The clanking of their boots on the walkways had raised the rat, which cried out and scampered off as quick as it's short little legs could move.

"Forget the rat – the Baron wants him!" Erol snarled, and one of the guards immediately stepped up and flicked the gun he was holding around his hands, pausing only to see the slight flick of his commanders fingers before he drove the heavy butt of his gun straight into that blonde head.

"We've been waiting for you…"

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Authors notes: I like this prologue far better! And it's longer! YAY! And, if I may so – WAY more in character than the original.


	2. The sound of screams

**Authors notes:** REWRITTEN!

**The sound of screams**

There was something incredibly nice about hearing the mute-boy sing in screams…

The needles were slow to release their hold on him, Erol's hands in no haste to draw them out as the blonde one arched up into the machine involuntarily, almost driving the metal into his chest as he shuddered – the spasms wracking his body and making him moan even through the hell of his consciousness.

But the lights did go out, flicking off as that gloved hand toyed with the switches of the dark eco beast.

He absolutely adored this little creation, and it was shame to hear the throaty growls die in a hiss and a whirr of grinding gears. The gleam was reflected in his amber eyes, which stayed fixed upon the gleaming metal a moment longer – not yet willing to remove themselves from this toy of death.

Erol had always had an affinity for machinery – the more destruction it could do, the more he loved it.

Suiting – metal man and metal weapons of mass terror!

Joy.

He finally tore his eyes away, sliding them over the boy before flicking up to catch at Praxis. "Still sore?" mutter Erol slyly, blinking lazily as he removed his hands from the machine and let them rest lightly upon his pistols.

A vein in the Baron's neck bulged.

"What on earth are you talking about, _commander_?" he grated out – although he knew exactly what it was the redhead was speaking of.

His reaction made Erol chuckle as he moved to the table, his boots thudding on the floor as he did so - hands resting on the table, weight pressed upon it as he leaned forwards and smiled.

"Don't play coy, Baron, it doesn't suit you."

The vein seemed to lunge from Praxis's neck, his temper rising at the silky tones.

"We are done tonight," he growled, gesturing towards the blonde with one massive hand. Erol's only answer was a smirk, the thin lips growing wide as he struggled to contain his mirth.

Sometimes avoidance wasn't _really_ the best route.

Seething, the Baron turned on his heel, feeling Erol's eyes slide from his back – and he knew instinctively what they were looking at now. He paused, choosing his words carefully and speaking a low and gruff tone. "I know about your little fetish's, Erol, and I would like to remind you to exercise some caution."

There was a hiss of breath behind him, as if the commander had been about to reply but had sucked back the words as they teetered on his lips.

So Praxis took his leave and made his way towards the thick doors, which slid open obediently before him…

As soon as they grinded shut Erol moved, his left hand resting upon Jak's chest as his right moved to wipe away a strand of blonde hair from the boy's sweaty forehead.

Blue eyes flared open.

Erol laughed again – fuller this time, harsher and painful to the ears of the elf that he now towered above. Those thin lips are wide and parted, that vile tongue clicking against gleaming teeth as he drew in a hasty breath and leaned closer – almost nose-to-nose.

"Well well, so the _wonder boy_ wakes," he purred, each word dripping so sweetly from his open mouth. "Does it still hurt, freak?" It was a dangerous hiss, the muscles in his jaw clenching as his teeth ground together.

"I can make it hurt more…"

The moment was tense, freakish – past the point and madness and straight into the deep dark waters of the clinically insane.

"Do you want me to do that for you?" Closer still, so that Erol's breath fluttered on Jak's lips and the blonde could almost _feel_ that venomous tongue as it formed the sickeningly charming sentences.

"Well?"

Erol's eyes narrowed, his left hand sliding upwards to rest ever so softly against Jak's sluggish pulse – the feel of it drawing a bitter chuckle from his mouth, washing over the blonde's face.

"No, I don't think you do."

How could he get closer? How could he manage to close a gap so small, so that there was no room to think, or see, or _breathe_? That vile tongue so close it made Jak gag, his body shuddering as he attempted to slink further back into the hard surface of an unyielding chair.

Erol followed close behind, leaving no room between his delicately curled lips and Jak's own gaping mouth – until all pretense of breathing space was torn brutality from our hero's thoughts by a questing tongue and a hiss of breath.

The bitter slickness was enough to make Jak shake, his throat working furiously as he choked on the intrusion, lips forced wide as he attempted to scream against the wetness. Teeth worked into his lower lip, sharp and quick – until every moment was tainted by the copper tang of blood, the drip of red slinking down his chin.

He could barely think, barely distinguish the words Erol murmured into the dark cavern of his mouth, and barely feel those wicked lips twist into a smirk as they pressed violently into his own.

Jak was helpless, and he hated it.

But, alas, our commander was far too much of a fan!

His hands did not register in Jak's mind, although one had now hooked around his neck – dragging him upwards and deeper still into the lock of Erol's 'fetish'.

What could he do but retaliate? His lips softened, yielded – if only so his teeth could find some purchase in those intruding lips and sink deep, causing Erol to shove him back onto the table with power you would not think could be found in one so lean.

And he shoved him back _hard_.

Almost choking now, Erol still did not relinquish his hold as he followed Jak back, although his lungs hungered for air and his world was going black around him. He would not give in – not until he pressed further still and make Jak gasp at the suddenness.

The sound was all he needed…

It rang through his head like thunder, and he drew back with a smirk already forming on his bruised lips. Blood dribbled from his mouth, though he did not know if it was his own – cutting through the pallid whiteness of his jaw in a long run of crimson.

He was slow to move, slow to press a gloved finger to that spring of blood and survey the wetness in the sickly light – but not slow to smile, although it pulled taunt the wound and made him wince.

Then that finger is on Jak's mouth, the digit pressing against them as if he was shushing the boy – although the flare of pain and the sharp intake of breath was enough to betray such a naïve explanation.

"Not yet, eco-freak," he crooned.

"Not yet."

Then all was still and silent, the two held captive into that moment – one exuding a sense of fury, the other simply smiling, teeth bared in a sickening interpretation of a once pure show of emotion.

Erol spun on his heel, lip curling as he stepped away from the table and prowled across to the large doors.

Tck tck. Tck tck. Tck tck.

They slid open before him, gears grating as that moved sideways to reveal the two guards standing wait in the hall beyond.

A pair of heads snapped towards him, four eyes played across his torn lip and blood-tainted fingers.

No one asked a thing...

No one ever did...

And no one ever will.


	3. Stranglehold

**Stranglehold**

The guardroom was not a place he often frequented, preferring to distance himself from the antics of his subordinates – but today was a little special. It was for that reason that Erol was sprawled in one of the hard, lumpy chairs with his booted feet propped up on a nearby table and his hands linked behind his head.

Conversation had ceased when he had entered, although by now the guards had gotten sick of the tense silence and were talking in low voices, casting the occasional glance at the commander.

Who, for his part, completely ignored them.

One could almost expect him to purr, folded up upon the chair with his eyes half lidded and a sly smile dancing on his lips. Almost.

But not quite.

Erol's fingers twisted through his shock of red hair as he eyed the guards curiously, clicking his tongue against his teeth whenever he found someone he particularly liked. The apprehensive air was enough to make him chuckle, hissing through his clenched teeth as he surveyed the room. To say it was dirty would be a grave understatement – the only thing that looked clean were the weapons littering the shelves and the guards themselves.

Erol was tracing a gloved finger through the thick layer of dust on the table when his COM let off an insistent beeping noise.

His fingers dug within his armor, reaching mechanically to close around that square of hard metal – jerking it free as his fingers found the switch and it crackled and hissed as a voice filtered through.

"Commander, we have a situation in the industrial section."

Erol was up on his feet before the title had been squeezed out.

"The underground has staged a shoot up – up to fifty men in a close group down the G67. We've established that their line of retreat is straight up the buildings themselves, and there are sentries posted on the roof. I have a squadron standing by to take them out."

The room was utterly silent, every head turned to the lean figure of the commander as he strode towards the doors, motioning for them to follow as he snapped out a stream of commands.

"Get them up there and take out those sentries _quietly_, then position the men on the buildings and tell them to wait for my order."

The COM fizzed into silence.

Erol didn't pause, moving swiftly through the dark corridors of the fortress until he found his way to the hanger – one of the larger hellcats was already waiting for him, the armored elf inside tossing the keys his way as soon as he turned towards the red beast.

He caught them squarely in the palm of one of his gloved hands.

The wiry man leapt up into the mechanical monster, settling down into the hard backed chair and sliding his fingers onto the throttle as it roared into life.

Erol slid his helmet down, making everything a fractured red, and clicked on the radio concealed within the neck of his armor.

"Go."

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The site the underground had chosen was a good one – presuming they kept their line of retreat open and the lookouts were good.

Unfortunately for those sentries the Krimzon Guard were much _much_ better.

Even now the men were falling like flies as the red-garbed soldiers clambered onto the buildings, taking them out with ruthless efficiently before positioning themselves so that they could move forwards and send down a rain of shells on the heads of the unsuspecting fighters as soon as their commander ordered it.

Erol, however, took a far more direct route.

Flanked by a troop of guards the KG commander approached the rebellion head on, walking towards them and allowing the squad to fan out behind him and block off the alley. Erol licked his lips, pulled his pistols from their holsters, and strode towards the group of underground fighters with a smile on his face.

They didn't move.

Erol stopped, twenty meters away and in clear sight as the guards behind him cocked their guns and waited expectantly for the order to kill.

Words of abuse sailed from the underground – hushed quickly as thirty guards responded by swinging up their weapons.

Erol held up a hand.

The world went silent.

"I'd thought you'd have got sick of dieing," Erol purred. "Or is the temptation to kill me and crush the guard just _too_ great."

A shark-tooth smile, Erol spreading his arms wide and allowing the pistols to dangle uselessly from his fingers.

"Go on then – shoot me!"

No one moved.

That was, until a single fighter at the front of the group raised his gun hesitantly, finger squeezing the trigger.

The world exploded into a frenzy of killing.

The guards on the roof surged up immediately, bullets raining down on the group of rebels below. Screams punctuated the air, blood flying in slick curves as bodies were torn apart.

There was a gunshot and then Erol was in amongst the terror and the blood and the killing.

The first bullet had ricocheted off his armor and torn one of the pistols from his hands, skittering away through the wet steam to lie useless on the hard ground.

But the other one was up and firing.

His bullet took his assailant through the mouth, driving all the way through to blast free in a bloody wave as the man pitched to the earth. His arms waved in vain, crimson surging from the tears in his flesh to lie in a slick pool around him.

Erol didn't care.

Another bullet grazed his ear and he cursed, raising his gun. But that was torn from his hands by a rushing of metal and flew away to lie beside the other.

"Dammit," Erol shrieked – before narrowing his eyes and moving straight for the man who was attempting to take advantage of his current predicament. The commander let him come, running full tilt towards him with a howl on his lips – intent on tearing down the racer.

Said racer smiled.

And then his fist came up to slam into the fighters jaw, sending his head flying back as his body drove in – gun torn from his grip by the commanders other hand and tossed aside as he laughed and felt his attacker surging against him.

In the press of bodies the fighter had no chance to raise a defense against the fist that shattered his nose and sent a spray of blood over the pair. The man lurched forwards, blind and in agony as Erol's helmeted head split his lips.

He couldn't stop; the pain drove him forwards and straight into the commander, his feet attempting to give out under him – kept up only by Erol himself.

The commanders' left hand flew out, smashing into the fighters belly and causing him to lurch forwards into the uppercut that sent him reeling backwards. His flailing fists missed Erol completely as he surged forwards for the kill.

Sadly, the bullet that came hissing through the steam was not so ineffective.

It tore into Erol's side and the commander cried out, more in fury than pain as he dropped to the ground and rolled. By luck – and luck alone – his hands found the two pistols he loved so much, curling around them as he surged to his knees.

The fighter was coming for him, screaming bloody murder as he stumbled forwards – blood drenching his dirty clothes, the cloth mask shredded on his face.

There was no time to smile, no time to think, or pause, or breathe.

A loud crack shattered the silence.

The two pistols flared, the backlash sending searing pain through Erol's body as his muscles contracted around the bullet lodged deep in his side.

However, the fighter was not quite so lucky.

One bullet took him straight through the throat, the blood surging free from its confines as his own heart pumped wildly to the tune of death. With the last of his strength he raised bloody fingers to the hole, staring wide-eyed at the commander as he gurgled incoherently.

Then he dropped like a stone.

The other bullet had taken him through the chest, close to the heart.

Erol had time to smile before he tottered backwards and lay on the hard ground, hand pressed tightly to the wound in his side as he stared at the sky.

In the corner of his vision he saw the guards on the roof cease to fire, and a deadly silence descended on the world.

The last thing he heard was the thud of military boots making a hasty approach and a stream of commands he couldn't decipher.

All that mattered now was that he let the pain take him away…

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"I warned you Erol."

"Yes, you did Sir. But I think you will find my actions do not warrant such an extreme reaction."

"Did I not say detain? Is that what you call detaining?"

The Baron loomed over the commander, knuckles white and hands shaking in rage as he leaned on the table and glared at the man sitting opposite.

Erol winced as he moved, fingers moving to rest against the bandages that had been strapped around his side. Shirtless and dirty, stinking of blood, smoke, and sweat, and not to mention in a 'hell lotta' pain – not the kind of situation he particularly enjoyed.

And when you throw in the whole thing about Praxis breathing down his neck, well that just makes it a real riot.

The commander sighed, shifting his narrow shoulders and quirking one of his eyebrows.

"No, sir."

"So you give in?"

"No, sir."

Praxis snarled, clenching his jaw and turning away from the commander in anger. Erol looked at his broad back for a moment, waiting for him to turn around and explode.

It never happened.

Erol's eyes narrowed in surprise and he surged up from his seat, resting his fists on the table and ignoring the pain that charged through his body. "Sir?" he hissed.

One large meaty hand was waved in his direction, silencing him instantly. "Very well, commander. Get your shirt on and meet me down in the prison, at least you managed to detain _one_."

Erol stared at his back for a few moments longer, before turning on his heel and moving away.

/ - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The prisoner was young, too young in fact – his eyes far too wide in a pale face adorned with blood, his lips too soft and slack.

A mere boy posing as a man; but he would come to learn that in this world it was far better to be a child.

In the confines of the cell he looked even smaller, but maybe that was because Praxis was towering over him. Erol didn't know, and he didn't care.

All he worried about at that moment was that the boy would be killed before he could have some fun.

He was pinned against the wall, hands twisted behind him at an unnatural angle as the guard ignored his wails of pain. Praxis was obscuring Erol's view of the boy, so the commander settled back against the wall and closed his eyes with a sigh.

It felt like it had been forever when Praxis finally moved away, the boys' cries long since turning hoarse and broken as he succumbed to the questioning and told them everything.

It wasn't much.

As Praxis turned away the boy seemed to gather some vestige of courage, clambering to his feet as the guard that had been holding him followed the Baron to the door. His voice was soft, attempting to be calm although it pitched and surged from his throat.

"You're not going to kill me?"

The Baron didn't turn, didn't pause as the door slid open and his bulk slid through the gap. "No, you're the commanders problem now."

A dull hiss penetrated the horrified silence as Praxis and the guard disappeared behind the cell door. For a few minutes the prisoner stared in slack-jawed terror towards the metal, until the air was shattered by a soft chuckle that grew steadily into full-blown laughter.

Two eyes turned to fix on Erol as he pried himself from the wall and stepped towards the young man, shoving him back hard against the wall – eyes flicking over the stained and torn clothing. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, staring at it for a few moments before his head rose and a sick-sweet smile slid over his face.

"Now, if you would be so kind," he crooned.

The boy blanched, cringing instinctively although he knew he had nowhere to go. "What?" he stuttered, wetting his lips as he struggled to come to terms with the turn of events. "Aren't you going to knife me or something?"

Erol chuckled and raised his hand, fingers threading through the boy's pale hair.

"Now where would be the fun in that?"


	4. Still alive then?

Another disclaimer- I do not own Jak and Daxter, or any characters in the game. If I did I would be astoundingly rich, Kiera would be locked in her garage, and Jak, Torn and Erol would be making out in the corner of the Naughty Ottsel while Jinx sat at the bar, smoking, and laughing at them. And Daxter and Tess would be serving drinks, while Sig sat in a shady booth, with his feet on the table, a vodka in his hand, and his peacemaker beside him, looking all nice and polished. Mini Jak would be playing rough and tumbled with the croca-dog, and Vin would be drunk, sitting on a stool, and trying to figure out what equally drunk Onin and Seem were trying to tell him. And Ashelin would be hitting on some random guard, probably Iro.

Ohh yeah… ( dreamy look )

So it's probably a good thing I don't own them, cause you would all be scarred for life…

Scorpion: Ermm, I can't tell if the rating is right for this. I'm thinking I'm getting near the top end of the T scale… Lol

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Chapter 3 – **Still Alive Then?**

It took three hours for Erol to finally finish his business in the lower levels of the prison, visiting half-forgotten prisoners in dark, damp cells. Twice now he had stumbled upon one who had died, the stench clinging to the stone – it would still be there when the next helpless person was thrown in and left to rot. He didn't mind as he strode, drenched in crimson now, across the upper level. It was dark, the lights casting a dim and sickly glow on the cells, which held those captured for the Dark Warrior program.

Erol pulled the pass out of his belt, sliding it through the security. There was a faint whirr, and then a soft female voiced chimed 'access authorised, welcome commander.' The redhead replaced the card in its former place, stepping forwards into the darkness. There was a hiss as the door slid shut, and the lights flicked on, making the place glow strangely green.

The commander leaned back against the wall, watching the boy who lay curled up in the corner, his eyes closed, hands wrapped around his body in an effort to keep warm…

A thin smile graced Erol's lips as he stepped forwards, bending down to twine his fingers through the rough cloth grouped around Jak's throat. With a heave he lifted the elf from the ground, making Jak awake with a start. His eyelids flew up, blue eyes focusing on the commander, wide, fearful even. All this did was make the redhead feel even more superior, and he shoved the prisoner up against the wall, leaning into him and placing his lips near the boys' ear.

"Why is it that you never scream?" he hissed, grabbing the boys' hands as he struggled, trying to throw him off. Transferring the offending limbs to one hand he grabbed a small knife on his belt, pressing it lightly to the cloth around Jak's stomach.

He froze at the feeling of cold steel…

Erol smiled once more, thin lips inching up towards the tattoos that adorned his face as he twirled the knife against Jak's skin, delighting every time the boy flinched as the sharp point came ever closer to splitting flesh. He leaned forwards once more, pinning the boy to the wall with his body, letting his lips touch the long, elfish ear as he spoke against.

"I want you to scream". His tone was throaty, lustful, dangerous, and as Jak opened his mouth, perhaps to try and force words out, he pressed his hand down just that tiny bit harder, skin and fabric splitting under the razor sharp blade. It was a shallow cut, but painful, and Jak writhed, trying to slide out from under the commander and away from the knife that was teasing at his flesh. But Erol was in no mood for that, and he slammed Jak up against the cold stone, feeling the boy lurch forwards as his head connected with a sickening crunch. One long-fingered, spider-like hand moved upwards, till the knife rested ever to softly against Jak's throat.

"I could kill you now, if I so wanted." He grunted slightly as he held the boys hands up higher, clutched in one large, powerful fist. He let the pause hang, pressing the knife down slightly, feeling Jak's heart race, pounding against his own chest. He watched those eyes widen in anger and fear, and he loved every moment of it, content just to let the boy examine the possibilities.

Only when those eyes started to grow less fearful, more contemplative, did he pull the knife back, sliding it back into it's sheath. He was not going to let Jak get what he wanted, no, not at all. So, still holding his hands in one fist, his spare hand inched down the tunic, coming to a stop just above the wound he had so recently inflicted. Then, slowly, teasingly, his fingers drifted down, coming to rest upon the split skin, feeling blood sink into the cloth of his already drenched gloves. Jak writhed once more, feeling his stomach burn as Erol pressed just that tiny bit harder, before removing his fingers and letting his hand waltz back up along the chest, tracing delicately up the boys windpipe, leaving a trail of blood as they moved to his lips, before sliding back down once more…

And only then, once he was staring into wide, shocked eyes did he press himself even closer, till his blood-splattered, tattooed face with mere inches from Jak's own, the boys breath on his lips, noses almost touching. Erol's lips curled into a sneer, his eyes gleaming – dangerous, maniac, and yet strangely enthralling…

He tilted his head just that bit to the side, and their lips touched…

Jak tried to throw himself back, but he was securely pinned to the wall, and could do nothing but stare into the dark eyes of the commander. Time seemed to spiral out of his grasp, and Jak did not know how long it was until Erol pulled back, smirking.

The commander stepped back, and Jak sagged forwards, ribs protesting at the extended pressure put upon them. Blood had oozed into the cloth of his tunic, some of it staining Erol's own gear – although you could hardly tell, such was the state it was in.

Without a sound the redhead let Jak's wrists go, and the blond slumped to the floor, head falling back and connecting once more with the stone. His eyes were wide as he stared at the man who wanted to bring him so much pain, and Erol's own eyes narrowed as he walked towards the door.

"Next time, freak, I'll make you scream…" he snarled as the door opened, not looking back as it slid shut behind him, the lights clicking off to leave Jak in darkness, panting heavily and pressing a wad of cloth to his wound, trying to focus on anything but his pounding head or aching body…

-----------------------------pagebreak--------------------------------------

Erol massaged his temples before sliding his now spotless helmet back on, strapping it under his chin. It had been an eventful day, but there was still more to come. So, after sliding off his gloves and leaving them on his bedside table the commander exited his room, flicking on the security. His clothes were clean, but there were still flecks of blood on his pale face, testament to his previous activities.

He made his way down the long hallway, closer to the barracks. However, before he got to those large red doors he paused, peering into an open room, a sneer tugging at his mouth at the sight of the former commander packing. It had been a few months ago when he had been stripped of his title and forced back into normal KG duty, and during those few months Torn had been trying to convince Praxis to let him leave. Seemed the Baron had finally given in – a fact that surprised Erol to no end and only made him doubt his superior just that little bit more…

He never would of let Torn go…

No, he would have killed him, and enjoyed every minute of it…

But alas he could not do so here, for he knew the Baron's wrath only to well. However, this did not mean he couldn't engage in a little sport, before going to find his next target for yet another eventful night. He paused for just that moment longer, wondering if he should come back later and do it then. But then an eyebrow was quirked and he mentally chided himself.

Iro could wait.

So Erol stepped into Torn's room, his dark eyes sweeping it, noting the rugged quality. It was not like his own – the walls were bare, the paint chipped. All the papers were spread on top a large table, the guns hidden within drawers. This both annoyed and amused him because of his own nature, and so he did not spend to long contemplating the ex-commanders room, and turned instead to the man who was shoving what little he actually owned into a small bag.

The redhead moved towards one of the chairs surrounding the table, sitting in it and swinging his feet up, disturbing a few pieces of paper, which fluttered to the ground. He ignored them, eyes on Torn, who glanced at him and gave a low growl.

The mans face was harsh; the KG tattoos making him seem so much more brutal than he actually was. But he did not possess the same alluring quality as Erol – nor was he as ruthless. Erol studied him for a moment, lips pursed as if he was surveying the worth of something he had lost in a card game. But, as he looked into Torn's eyes he smiled, the thin lips dragged out a bit to wide for it to be anything but mocking. Torn gave another small growl under his breath and paused from shoving ammo into his bag, turning instead to stare at the man who had just strolled into his room.

"Come to say goodbye have you?" he snarled, shaking his head slightly as he returned to what he had been doing. Erol arched an eyebrow, his words curt.

"Now Torn, do not make the mistake of thinking that I will miss you. For I can assure you that I shall not. However, there is something I have come to collect." He paused, letting the silence hang as he furled his fingers around each other, pressing both thumbs to his lips as if deep in thought. It was a wholly scornful gesture, only causing Torn to fix him with an angry glare, disgust flicking within the depths of his dark eyes.

"I do believe that every gun is issued out on a loan to each new guard that comes in, and that upon the death of that guard, or in the act that he manages to leave the force, all mechanical weapons thereby belong to his commanding officer." He chuckles then; eyes drifting over the drawers that he knew held numerous guns. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, and was pleased he had allowed himself the time to have some fun with the old commander before he sought out his next play toy.

"Take them, I have no need of them now anyway and I'm sure your gun collection needs upgrading" drawled Torn, slamming a large curved knife into a sheath and strapping it to his back. Then he grabbed the gun out of its holster on his belt, flinging it at the commander, who caught it with one hand and twirled it around, inspecting it.

"I'm sure Ashelin will appreciate this" he muttered, eyes focused on the gun as yet another thin smile touched his face. "After all, she'll need something to remind herself after I kill you." It was said without a change of tone, as if he was merely chatting. But Torn knew otherwise – the commander would be out to get him as soon as he left the barracks and struck out on his own.

"I'll come back and collect the others later, right now I have more important things to attend to" Erol mused, stashing the gun and removing his feet from the table, scattering a few more papers on the floor as he did so. He walked towards the door, then paused, one hand resting against the doorframe, his face expressionless.

"It was good while it lasted Torn." He arched an eyebrow, such a simple gesture seeming so incredibly cruel, and he shook his head ever so slightly as he spoke, amused despite himself. "But I'm so glad it's over."

And with those words of parting Erol moved off down the hallway, away from the open door and closer to the barracks, but he was pulled up short by an approaching guard. It didn't take him long to recognise the man under the red suit, and as the elf made to walk past Erol grabbed him by the shoulder, swinging him against the wall and yanking off the heavy KG helmet…

"Hello Iro, don't we have something to do tonight?"…

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Scorpion: You know what, I really enjoy writing this…

Erol: You just like making me torment the eco freak and make out with random guards don't you?

Scorpion: Of course not, what gave you that idea?

Erol: Ohhh, just something you said…


	5. Slum Rats

Scorpion: ermm, this is really just a filler, I have no idea where it's going, I just needed to put something in here, and this is what happens when you head bang to Pet by A Perfect Circle and Tool songs really loudly… Thanks to all you guys for your reviews!

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Chapter 4 – **Slum Rats**

It had been seven months…

Seven months of being the biggest and the best, controlled only by the Baron himself. Months of plotting and planning how to screw over the metal heads, months of playing with the prisoners…

Yes, it had been that long…

It was early morning, sunlight filtering through grimy windows, casting sickly light on the troop of men gathered below, pooling over red armor, splattering on tattooed faces and the occasional charcoal stained chest. The troop of guards were shuffling around in the locker room, slipping on training gear, ruffling through lockers and cocking guns. There was the occasional grunted conversation, consisting of a few barely coherent and sordid remarks, quickly dwindling into nothingness.

The room was dirty, looking more like the prison, with bars in front of the grime encrusted windows - a couple of which were shattered where a few unfortunate guards had lost articles of clothing or the occasional weapon. Or where those who had simply been feeling vindictive towards the glass had decided to let off a bullet or two, punching ragged holes and letting in undiluted light.

The guards came to attention at the sound of boots clanking, leaping to their feet, and seconds later Erol was leaning idly against the doorframe, eyebrows raised as he surveyed the men. No one moved, as those dark eyes flicked to each individual, sometimes trailing down a tattooed chest, other times flicking on, barely pausing. It was an uneasy silence, broken only when the commander laughed, the sound rich and throaty and undeniably disgusting. His head was thrown back ever so slightly, showing the stains of tattoos trailing down his neck, disappearing into his own armor. The men shuffled, put off guard by the surprising turn of events, but froze almost immediately as the laughter shut off without warning, leaving only uncomfortable silence.

"Get dressed and get down the hall, I have some slum rats for you to play with." He hissed, lips tugged into a sneer before he turned on his heel and stalked off down the hallway, towards a pair of large black and red doors, a few security cameras pivoting on their stands and fixing him in their bulging lenses. The door slid open with a hiss as soon as he drew near, and the sounds of raucous laughter and gunshots filtered through before they shut with a loud clang.

The men in the locker room didn't look at each other as they shoved on the last pieces of clothing or armor they needs, slipping guns into holster and striding off down the hallway, boots thunking in perfect military precision.

The door hissed open…

The training room was stuffed full of, well, training things. Down the whole right side of the massive underground room was a multitude of gun courses, with the highest-ranking members scores displayed on flashing screens, which changed often as guard after guard took to the courses. The left side was what one might call a course, with targets popping up in the most unexpected places, red-eco charged weapons sending streams of bullets on the first guard who came within range. There was the occasional hail of bullets from the roof, or from the walls, making everyone in the room duck for cover or roll.

A mass of men were standing in front of Erol as he leaned back on a part of the course, the electronics whirring beneath him. He was, as always, decked out in navy and yellow, the red-eyed helmet pushed back off his face, flaming hair sticking up, dark eyes surveying the men who were gathered before him.

He motioned behind him, and a couple of guards stepped forwards, dragging forwards three elves, who struggled violently, screaming, swearing, their faces contorted. Erol winced, and motioned against, his fingers flicking as he nodded his head ever so slightly. Guns were removed from holsters, metal resting against necks, a kiss and a promise of cold death.

Only when there was silence did the commander turn back to the men, smiling slightly now, lips thin and cruel, eyes glinting with malice.

"Now who will I pick today?" he mused, pursing his lips as his eyes flicked over the crowd, each man watching his every move eagerly. They all wanted to be picked – to prove their worth to their commanding officer, to get in his good books. Every man's hand lingered on his gun, fingers drumming armor, eyes gleaming behind heavy KG helmets.

Erol spun on his heel, his hand arching out, and finger stabbing forwards towards one of the men at the front, eyes narrowing. "You" he hissed, staring at the man, who was decked out in rough hand-me-down armor. Defiantly a newbie then, who had not yet proved his stripes, so to speak. Erol studied him for a moment longer, before his hand slumped down to finger his gun, a dangerous gesture.

"Name!" he snapped, showing just a tad to much teeth for comfort. The guard did not hesitate – he knew he was being tested. "Tor, sir." His voice was cool and calm, and he ignored the murmured remarks of the guards who stood around him, some of whom eyed him with contempt, others with a hint of jealousy.

"Tell me, Tor, have you ever killed someone?" Erol muttered conversationally, the smile still on his lips. The guards stiffened as one, and all eyes turned to the newbie. Tor managed to keep calm, "No sir." Erol nodded slightly, before motioning the man up to stand before him, stepping aside so he had full view of the captives.

"Well today's your lucky day."

Tor nodded slightly, and eyed the three prisoners. One was little more than a boy, dark haired and chubby faced – he looked like he should be at home sprawled on a couch, with his mother waiting on him hand and foot. His rich clothes were torn and grubby, and Erol's nose wrinkled ever so slightly at the smell that wafted from them. Stolen then.

The next one was an older man, middle age if not a bit above. He wore barely any clothes at all; simply tattered rags that clung to his decimated frame. His face was gaunt and white, without the rosy tinge that decked out the first prisoners cheeks, but his eyes were defiant…

The third was a woman, young. She would have been beautiful if her face wasn't so harsh, her nose long and hooked, her straggly hair cropped down to mere pricks of brown. She didn't look all that lucid either, for her eyes were unfocused and the pungent smell of drink hung around her.

Erol eyed them all up before pointing towards the woman, motioning for the guard who held her to step away. Tor immediately took his face, pressing his own gun to her jugular. The guard who had been holding her stepped into the crowd, his yellow armor glinting, showing clearly against the mass of red.

The commander immediately turned to find his next candidate, eyes skimming the crowd, before fixing on a guard three rows deep. With a sinister chuckle he flicked his fingers, curling them rounds towards him just once before pointing absently at the chubby boy.

The guards cocked his gun and strode forwards, as the second elite dropped the kid, moving to stand by his fellow. The boy grunted and tried to scramble to his feet, only to find himself with a gun pointed squarely at the middle of his forehead. The guard grabbed him by the hair, hauling his head back.

Erol then picked out his next guard, a tall and slim man whose armor was adorned with strips of red cloth – much like the one Erol himself wore one his right arm. In the guards case it showed his kills under Erol's command, memorabilia basically.

The man said nothing as he came up, relieving the third and final elite of his duties. The three yellow clad guards grouped together and waited for their commander, a solid stain in a sea of red.

"My family!" screamed the older male prisoner, thrashing in the grip of the guard who held him. Erol paused, about to make his way towards the elites but instead turning and crouching down, so his face was so close that the man could see the brooding malice in his eyes and feel his breath on his face.

"They don't care about you," he hissed; smile drawing up his lips, thin and vindictive. "At least, not like I do." With that said he rose from his crouch, and surveyed the prisoners and the three guards who held them once more. His eyes stuck on the boy, and the smile turned to a sneer in a heartbeat. "Cut some of the flesh from his bones and give it to him" he muttered, finger stabbing out towards the man he had just spoken to, before he turned on his heel and strode towards the three elites.

"Have fun with them boys" he remarked as he made his way through the crowd, pulling the helmet down over his head, eyesight immediately stained crimson.

There was the sound of cocking guns and laughter behind him, followed by gunshots and loud, thundering cheering, pressing down on Erol's ears…

He laughed…

Oh how he laughed…

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Scorpion: humm, weirdness. Sorry, once again it is just a filler. Didn't have that much Erol in it actually. I'm actually watching Pirates of the Caribbean out of the corner of my eye at the moment, so I was tempted to put 'nigh' in their somewhere. Lol, it just wouldn't fit…

Erol: You make me seem like a loon…


	6. Shadows and Dust

Authors notes: sorry for the long delay, my sincere apologies. I have been on Jak withdrawal for months now, and that really saps away Erol muse. However, I have been reading somewhat violent fantasy books lately and tada! Erol's on a killing spree, w00t w00t!

Erol: ohh yes, my triumphant return had to involve guns, blood, and sex didn't it?

Scorpion: Hey, you're just lucky I dreamed up a hot recruit for you. I could have made him a pot-bellied booze hog with three-day-old stubble…

Erol: excellent point.

* * *

**Chapter five – shadows and dust**

Erol's heavy black KG boots thunked loudly on the rock-hard streets of the slums. The place was empty, without colour or any sense of life. The city lay silent, save for the occasional drumming of military boots on stone and the harsh scratching of hastily drawn curtains.

Dread ran through the veins of Haven like a drug, fear stalked every dark, gloomy alley. Every civilian heart would pound at the sound of footsteps slowing by locked doors, or the clatter of something unknown on grime encrusted glass.

This made his job so much easier. Anyone out tonight would be up to something, and the promise of bloodshed made his heart quicken in sick pleasure. So much so that he eyed each locked down with disgust, hoping that he would come upon one that had forgotten to be bolted shut. Perhaps the inhabitants would be asleep, curled up and snoring softly. He could creep up on them, press the barrel of his gun to soft pallid skin, and watch the blood flower on ragged off-white sheets. Hear the screams…

It was defiantly time to stop thinking.

Oh, he loved this time, when the air was still and thick with apprehension and the world seemed to balance on a knife-edge. The path he followed was drenched in shadow, which, ironically enough, suited the almost cat-like way he prowled along it, his boots clanging on stone. A steady beat before which shadows constantly fled.

Erol paused, pressing himself into the cracked and dirty wall of the nearest building, fading into the shadows. His ear pricked, picking up the distinctive sound of hurried footsteps just around the corner.

At that moment a spider scuttled down his arm, breaking his concentration. He stared at it, poised, waiting for it to inch onto his palm. The reaction was instantaneous, his fist closing like a vice and crushing it slowly. He smiled, wishing that it had a voice…

Just so he could hear it screaming.

He was brought sharply back to the situation at hand by the sound of voices close by. His hand inched down till he could curl his fingers lovingly around the handle of his gun.

Drawing it out of its holster slowly, so as not to make a sound, he cocked it and began the hunt.

Silently now he inched along the wall to the corner, breathing lightly, straining to catch the conversation. The voices were muffled and barely coherent – but he could taste the fear in them and the knowledge made him shiver with pleasure.

Footsteps drew nearer and the commander tensed, licking his lips in anticipation. A voice sounded, not three feet away, and there was the sound of something heavy dragging on stone.

Erol took a deep breath, fixing this moment of ecstasy in his mind. He was the hunter, the predator, so close to his prey that he could smell their terror. He held the power of life and death over them; he could send their worthless souls into the void in an instant.

The idea was incredibly alluring.

With a smile he spun on his heel, swinging around the corner.

His gun connected with skin even as he fired, the man seeming to explode as the bullet ripped into him, showering the commander in blood with a spray of crimson rain.

The other two underground fighters were momentarily stunned – the sight of their comrade being blown apart rooting them to the spot. This allowed Erol time to fire again, the bullet slamming into the first man's throat. He dropped to his knees, pushing his fingers inside the bloody tear in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of life from his jugular. With almost comical slowness he fell forwards, crashing into the ground.

The third man made a run for it.

Erol took careful aim and fired. As the bullet rushed towards the man he stumbled, and it almost sailed past him.

Almost.

In this city of no second chances almost might as well be a death sentence.

The bullet tore through the back of the man's neck and he was pitched from his feet. Erol picked his way carefully past the first two bodies and walked towards him, boots thumping menacingly on the street. He bent down and flipped the man onto his back – amazingly he was still conscious. Erol straightened and studied the face of the fight, who was, in truth, little more than a boy.

"Some people say you experience wonderful visions before you die. You, however, do not deserve such joy."

And with that said Erol put a bullet right through his treacherous heart.

"Well that was hardly sporting," came the drawling voice of one ex-commander, thick with disgust. Erol turned to see Torn leaning against the wall of a nearby building. He was surveying the mangled bodies with intense distaste.

"Do you think it's true, that you see visions?" he asked. Erol shrugged as he went to inspect the first corpse.

"I wouldn't know, I have never died."

Torn pried himself away from the wall, moving towards the body of the younger man.

"You look wonderful by the way," he muttered sarcastically. Erol nudged the corpse he was standing over with his foot.

"It was this guy, he was so very close." He raised his hand till it was just inches away from his face, staring at the palm for a few seconds, remembering how the man's face had contorted with pain and shock. Then he let his hand drop to his side, a thin smile twisting his features as he admired his handiwork.

"Oh Torn, you should of seen his face." Chuckling he fished his communicator out of its place on his belt.

"Send a squadron down to E-17 for cleanup."

"Yes sir, straight away sir."

Turning off his COM, Erol slumped down against the wall of the closest building. Only then did he realize that there was blood all over him – his hands, his face (bare of its usual racing mask), his clothes.

Hell, it even dripped down his neck from his shock of now crimson hair.

He holstered his gun and looked up at Torn, who was still surveying the bodies quietly.

"You know, that's the difference between me and you Torn. I take no prisoners. Sure, they'll ask me why, but unfortunately my actions, although regrettable, were necessary to ensure the safety of the civilians nearby and, of course, myself." He smiled, but it was thin and a little too wide.

"You're a maniac," hissed Torn. Erol laughed, throwing his head back and clapping his hands in childish mirth. The action was wholly scornful, plainly rude amusement. Then he lurched to his feet, picking up the unmistakable sound of his approaching squadron.

"I could kill you Torn, but I won't. After all, what is life without a little healthy competition?" Chuckling malevolently he strode towards the guards who had just entered the street.

"Clean this up." He made to move past them, but his eye was caught by one of the younger guards who had just removed his helmet – revealing short black hair, full lips, and blue eyes. He was standing with a bunch of other new recruits who had not yet received orders.

"The rest of you help with the bodies, but you", he drawled, jabbing his finger at the blue-eyed recruit. "You come with me, I've got a special job for you."

He spun on his heel, the recruit following obediently.

"What do you need me to do sir?" he asked. Erol looked at him, smiling and showing just a few too many teeth for comfort.

"You are going to be stress relief," he answered, chuckling darkly as the palace loomed into view. "Tell me, what room are you."

* * *

Erol sighed and ran a hand through his hair – it was stiff and tangled and refused to yield to his fingers. Blood still flecked his hands and face, and the outer layers of his armor (discarded near the door) were stained a deep crimson.

With a disgusted grunt – he was in dire need of a clean – Erol moved to the window through which grimy, filtered light managed to penetrate.

The city was stirring with the dawn, the terrors of the night fading away as the light pierced the gloomy decrepit streets of the slums.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth sinking into the charcoal stains of his tattoos.

Even now the first of the civilians would be seeking the signs of last nights slaughter. They were like moths to a flame – every slum rat would be draw to the memories of gunfire. Unfortunately all they would find was dried blood splatters on both the street and the buildings that crowded it. He knew that the underground would of found out about the deaths already, perhaps they had already mourned for their three lost comrades.

He closed his eyes, savoring the memories, going through then slowly for otherwise he felt he might choke on the sweetness.

Only when he had relived every second did he turn away from the window and begin his search for what things he had left on the floor. Careful not to wake the recruit (he still did not know his name) who lay tangled in the crisp white linen sheets, the commander moved silently about the room. Shuffling through discarded red KG armor he finally found what he was looking for. His fingers curled around his belt, stroking the handle of his gun fondly before he slid it on and tightened it.

Then, after gathering what else he had left lying around, he dumped his possessions on the table and moved to the bed. With a smirk, lips drawn tight and wide, he leant forwards, till his breath fluttered on the pale neck of the recruit.

The man awoke instantly.

"You are very good stress relief," he hissed, his throaty voice so sweet it was almost sickening. "But now you must get up for training, and I must attend to more important matters."

The recruit rolled over, so that Erol was leaning over him. The commander bent forwards, placing his lips next to the man's ear.

"Tell anyone and I will kill you an inch at a time," he purred, the sound full and rich and yet very very cold.

His head moved so their lips met, holding it for a moment before pulling away and leaping from the bed. He gathered up his things and moved to the door, where he paused, spinning around to look at the recruit.

"Oh, and you…" He paused, waiting for a name to be supplied.

"Carcer, sir."

"Right, Carcer, next time adhere to military protocol and do not remove your helmet in what was a combat zone." He held up his index finger, "your one warning is gone, and if you do it again I'm afraid I will have to punish you. Other than that, you might want to be quick," he smirked, glancing at the window, "you're going to be late."

And with that done and dusted Erol, wearing tight navy stretch leggings and little else, spun on his heel and stalked down the iron-grey corridors of the barracks.


	7. Sleep Tight Tonight

Author's notes: Once again, my sincere apologies for the delay – this time it was far more personal, and not something I really want to talk about. So bear with me…

Jak: I feel so violated…

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The floor of the prison was thick with dust and grime; the layers of filth muffled every footstep the commander took. What little light penetrated the dank corners of the place flickered, merely giving the shadows a little more life. The inhabitants of the cells watched him as he passed, the occasional groping hand reaching out only to be stopped, inches from him, by the thick bars.

He moved on like he didn't have a care in the world, hands resting ever so lightly on the holsters of his pistols. The racing mask was pulled down, making the world a glistening, shattered crimson – so much more suited to his tastes.

The Dark Warrior Program was one of his personal favourites – in particular one little blond elf that has failed to perform to his full extent in this story. So it was that on this particular day he made his way to the thick bulletproof doors and let his fingers dance across the access panel. The door slid open with a gentle hiss…

Jak sat bolt upright when he heard it.

Erol stepped into the cell with a sly smile, the door sliding shut behind him and sealing the two in a space that was all to small for Jak's tastes – but not for those of the commander. He moved towards the blonde elf, throwing him back on the bed from which he was attempting to rise.

'So here we go again', hissed Erol, pausing for a moment to look down on the elf now sprawled across the dirty cot. 'You know', he purred. 'I like you that way'.

Jak got halfway up from that position before Erol made contact again, placing his gloved hands on the younger elf's shoulders and pushing him back down. The commander leant forwards, running his fingers down Jak's face and letting his eyes flick downwards – downwards, before coming to rest once more on those wide eyes.

The blonde was surprisingly calm, far to used to this situation than any man should ever be. Those eyes slide shut, muscles tight with anger that he could do nothing but yield to Erol's questing tongue and give in to the touch of their bodies even thought it almost made him want to cry out in repulsion.

It was disgusting – but in some strange way it was nice to be so close to someone.

And if he kept his eyes closed he could pretend the person above him wasn't the one that was pumping him full of eco, using him for his own sick pleasure and nothing else. That it wasn't something who had killed and maimed and laughed at the bloodshed and the taste of it on his lips – that it wasn't some mad creature come to claim him with force and fury. Maybe then, when he got rid of the feeling of the commander's fingers on his skin or the sound of his harsh breathing, maybe then he could imagine that this wasn't as sick as it was.

His eyes open ever so slightly as their lips parted once more, taking a deep breath and attempting to squeeze some air into his lungs. Erol was straddling him now, smiling, his helmet pushed back to reveal the charcoal stains upon his face and his glittering eyes.

For a moment Jak thought about reaching for the pistol that was bumping against his thigh, but even as he formulated the plan Erol moved again.

His right hand gripped Jak's upper arm firmly as he pulled him up once more, hungry for the taste of his lips and the perverted pleasure he found there. His other hand moved down to rest upon Jak's hip.

The kiss was long, and when the commander did pull back he did not go far. Their faces were so close, and Jak was held there by the vice-like grip, although he attempted too remove himself from it. The retaliation was swift and painful, and the elf grunted at the pressure on his ribs, arching his body in an attempt to find some space. Some distance between him and the slim figure above.

To attempt to escape would mean pain – not death. He would not be given the sweet release, but the chair and the needle. So Jak surrendered to the wills of the redhead, lay still and silent under his body, gasping, trying to find some air to fill his empty lungs. He could taste blood – in his revolt he had bitten his lip and the sight of it made his captor smirk.

But it was not enough for Erol, it would never be enough.

'Scream', hissed Erol, tightening his grip on Jak's arm as his left hand began to move once more. 'Scream.'

And then the lights went out…

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(Same day – approximately 12:23 pm)

In a dark, secluded corner of the slums there is a building – nondescript grey and completely filthy. It is used to house the old, those no longer useful to society, as they wait to die.

The place was rank with mold, the walls crumbling, the stuffing pulled from the furniture to litter a floor that was thick with dust and other, distasteful, substances. The place stank of death and disease, and bodies – both living and dead – lay sprawled throughout.

The only good thing about it was that the old man couldn't see what a hellhole he was in.

The aging man sat huddled by a grimy window, wrapped against the chill in a heavy and discolored cloak of Lurker fur. The occasional wheezing cough wracked his feeble body, but other than that he was utterly still.

Even the heavy thumping of black boots making a track through the filth did not raise him. In fact, the sound only made him huddle deeper in his cloak and let loose another harsh breath.

It was not until an all too familiar drawl split the intense silence that he turned.

'Evening father'. The gaze that met the commander's own was milky and distant – the cataracts had by now completely stolen his sight.

'Evening is it? Hard to tell in this place.' The old man's voice was a growl, coarse as sandpaper – a stark contrast to the silky, authoritative tones Erol had long since mastered.

'How do you feel?' asked the navy and yellow clad guard, perching himself upon the windowsill and surveying the room with something akin to revulsion.

'I feel like death, boy.' The words are said with a sigh and a sad smile, and Erol shifts slightly in his seat – but his father cannot see the sly grin that is starting to creep along his soft lips.

For this moment was much darker than it could ever appear, sick in its twisted emotion, repulsive in the lack of love found in those disapproving eyes no longer hidden behind the red lenses of his mask.

Erol licked his lips, blinking lazily – but the old man could not see how much his son hated him, and his own faced cracked into an affectionate smile.

'Have you come to get your old man out of here?' he asked, trying to show how much he needed to hear an answer.

Perhaps Erol would have denied the claim – if he hadn't seen the need in that haggard face.

'Yes father, I'm going to get you out of here,' he mumbled, keeping his voice soft even as his lip curled upwards in disgust. 'You just stay here, I'll be back soon.'

'All right boy', said the old man with a toothless, trusting smile directed at the retreating back of his son.

And why shouldn't he trust him? After all, Erol was such a good boy.

Such a good boy.

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Once he was free of the building Erol quickened his pace, the cold ripping into his face like knives. It was utterly dark, and he made his way by memory alone, turning down an alley that was found beside the building.

He stumbled, his foot cracking against a heavy KG helmet, making him swear harshly as he kicked it away. 'Get your helmets back on you idiots', he snarled into the shadows of the alley.

For a moment there was silence, then the helmet was swept up by a gloved hand and disappeared from his view.

The squadron stepped towards him – looming out of the darkness like creatures born from nightmares. There came the hiss of a COM being flicked on, and a harsh metallic voice filtered from the helmet of the elite who had stepped up beside Erol.

'Commander?' he asked, gesturing towards the building Erol had just left.

The man in question fixed his gaze on the yellow helmet, his lips twisting into a distorted smile.

'Torch it.'

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In a dark, secluded corner of the slums there is a building – nothing but flame and the wrenching cries of the burning.

There is a man there, silhouetted by the corpse fires.

And he's laughing…

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Erol: I feel so mental now…

Scorpion: You and me both baby! Yeah!

Erol: You enjoyed that didn't you?

Scorpion: Every single twisted moment! Ohh, and by the way, I decided the let you imagine what Erol did to Jak – found my version to be a little too, ermm…

Erol: Mature?

Scorpion: Exactly!


	8. The Voice Within

Scorpion: I don't know where this chapter is going, but it's going there regardless. I wanted a change of scene again…

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( next day – approximately 4:35 pm )

The Hip-Hog was packed, as usual, although the crowd parted before him as he slipped through the door and made his way to a vacant booth in the dirtiest, dingiest corner of the entire place. The light was fizzing and flickering, but the half-light suited him just fine.

With a sigh he slid onto the seat and leant back, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the noises around him and ease the thumping in his head.

His uniform still retained traces of ash and the odd splatter of blood – his gloves were caked with the filth and he stank of death. Suiting. Erol slid further in the shadows, placing his fingers to his temples and moving them in a circular fashion.

It was early morning and he had no idea why the place was so full, but now he was here he certainly couldn't leave.

The chill was getting to him, and his skin was pale, his lips blue. The tattoos stood out strongly against such a light backdrop of flesh.

It was wheezing breath that brought him out of his reverie – those eyes flare open but do not move to take in the bulge of the man nearby.

He knew who it was.

And he liked to keep Krew waiting.

Although eventually he allows him to feel the full force of his gaze.

"Morning Erol" he wheezed, drawing in a sharp breath. His oddly slim legs dangled uselessly below his hover chair, over which his fat had oozed.

Erol gave a lazy laugh and a flash of teeth, thin lips curling into a sneer as he rested his booted feet upon the table. His dark eyes moved from the repulsive tub of lard to admire the caps on his boots – but there was something all too intense in the way he surveyed the flash of bloodstained steel.

"Krew, long time no talk. I thought you had forgotten about me." His voice is soft, the smile that followed charming and almost innocent.

Almost.

The commander leaned further into the padded backrest of the booth, regarding the owner of the bar with something like sneering contempt plastered on his face.

"Listen, I've been having some trouble lately with a few of your…" There was another sharp intake of breath before he carried on. "Guards. Got to close an eye on my shipments, you turn their gaze and I throw in a little reward for your troubles, ey? What do you say?"

Erol pulled off his gloves and inspected his nails for a moment, before crossing his arms over his chest and closing his eyes.

"Bring me a drink and then maybe we'll talk," he hissed, breathing deeply, eyes fixed on some point behind the blackness of his eyelids.

"You better, I need my shipments," Krew wheezed, fanning himself as he moved away towards the bar.

"Idiot," muttered Erol under his breath, before turning his thoughts inwards.

_How do you feel? _He asked himself, repeating an all too familiar conversation in his mind.

Angry… 

It was always the same reply, acidic and harsh.

And why are you angry? 

_Because I don't have what I want._

_And what do you want?_

_Power. Blood. Revenge. Love. Hate. Pity. Fury. Death. War. Jak. Kiera. Torn. The carnal passions of the flesh – take your pick._

_You know it isn't good to talk to yourself like that. You have issues Erol._ Here he uttered a soft laugh, breaking the silence that surrounded his lips and making a nearby customer throw him a questioning glance.

_No I don't…_

_Yes you do, you just don't know it yet…_

Once again he was torn from his thoughts by a breath, soft and quick. There was a thump as something, probably a glass, was deposited by his feet, and the thump of heavy boots receding into the crowds.

His eyelids come up slowly, lazily, and he reaches for the alcohol mechanically. As he sipped the liquid his eyes landed upon an old picture hung on the opposite wall, and he leaned forwards slightly to make out in the face behind the cracked and dirty glass.

When he did recognize the face he couldn't resist a sly smirk, leaning back again and chewing on an ice-cube he had just fished out of his drink.

It was Caliban.

The man had very nearly been made commander ahead of him, but on the night before the ceremony he had been found dead on the steps of the palace.

Erol had been the only one with him when the bullet ripped out his heart.

_His_ bullet…

Erol didn't like to come second to anyone.

The thought made him smile.

_You have issues Erol._

_That's a filthy lie…_

_I don't lie Erol. I'm not like you…_

It was Krew who drew Erol from his thoughts the third time that morning – maybe the lack of sleep was starting to play with his head.

Whatever it was, it had put him in a very foul mood.

Krew maneuvered himself as close to the commander as the booths confines would allow, and Erol's lips twisted into a snarl as the sight and smell of the man so close to him.

"I just need you to distract em for a few seconds. What do you say?"

Erol sighed and slipped back on his gloves, removing his feet from the table and standing – this greatly shortened the amount of room between them.

"Forget it."

And then he pushed past Krew and slipped through the crowd, stepping out into the darkness of an incoming dawn.

Outside it was silent but for the crack of boots on the sidewalk, and Erol glared down at the murky water of the ports as he made his way back towards the soaring heights of the palace.

A few of the commoners still ambled aimlessly along the streets, and Erol prowled among them, drifting from one sickly patch of light to the next.

He would go back to the palace and get some sleep…

He would get clean…

And then he would find himself a nice bunch of prisoners…

And rip them apart.

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Erol: Can you write without making me a trigger-happy maniac?

Scorpion: Nope. Ohh, and by the way, I'm hurrying the plot along a little bit. I think we've got the gist of what Erol does in his spare time, don't you?

Erol: Ohh, I don't know. Maybe you should kill a few more people just to make sure…

Scorpion: Maybe I will, and maybe I won't…

Erol: Make some sense woman!


End file.
